POETRY

(Legend has it that King Arthur will return one day. Expect the unexpected!)

Two-pot Vee of heavy gruntVestigial mudguards, back and frontExtended fork, obtusely strungSaddle (king and queen) low slungAnd so arranged to make a seatWhere buttocks barely skim the street.

The lumpy engine blats away ‘Fire at will’ the pistons say Bearded rider, studded coat Leather-cased from foot to throat And arms, like circus monkey are Hanging, ape-like, from the bar.

This is how the King will come Not (as presumed) from Avalon And now he shatters down the street Where four Pale Riders come to meet And then retire to a Knight’s abode Two-bedroom fibro, Commercial Road.

And when, perforce, the end is nigh Arthur will untune the sky Not with trumpet, but obscene roar Then, blessed silence evermore.